


eso no me queda claro

by rjtondale



Category: Que Raro - Feid & J. Balvin (Music Video), Reggaeton RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Heartbreak, M/M, Phone Call, Post-breakup, Song Lyrics, Songwriting, a mess, extensively edited but still a mess, well technically more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtondale/pseuds/rjtondale
Summary: “José, why did you call me?”“I need -”“Oh,” Feid says, voice light, “of course.”
Relationships: J Balvin/Feid
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	eso no me queda claro

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [eso no me queda claro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985637) by [rjtondale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtondale/pseuds/rjtondale)



Feid’s phone rings. He hadn’t realized the sound was on, and it startles him. Actually, it takes a moment to even recognize it - he hasn’t heard _that_ ringtone in… how long has it been? A year? Two years?

He lets it ring.

On the other end, José waits, listening to the silence between rings and praying that Feid picks up. He taps his foot, runs a hand over his hair. One. Two. Three. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s asleep - but no, Miami is only an hour ahead of Medellín. Four. Five. Six.

A fragment of a song floats through José’s mind. _Sete chamadas perdidas, mil mensagens -_

“Hello?”

“Feid,” José sighs.

“Who is this?” Feid asks. As if he doesn’t know.

José almost says _it’s me_ or _ya sabes_ or _what do you mean_ , but he doesn’t. He says, “It’s José.” And then, “I’m sorry to bother you. How are you?”

José cringes. Feid thinks, _How am I?_

“I’m… well. How are you?”

“I’m fine, fine.”

A pause. Feid waits. José knows he should say something else; it’s his turn, and he initiated the call in the first place. But the words won’t come. Does he just ask? Should he try for some more small talk? How’s the weather, how’s your sister?

“José, why did you call me?”

“I need -”

“Oh,” Feid says, voice light, “of course.”

“No, no, not like that. Not -” José runs a hand over his head. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already fucked it up. He stands and walks to the window. Looking out over the trees, he asks, “Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. It’s been too long.”

“Maybe so. Why now, then?”

They both resist the obvious joke, the too-appropriate song. _Qué pretendes tú, llamándome a esta hora?_ They pause, breathing for just the length of the line, leaving it unsaid. _De tu vida me borré._

Finally, José says, “I’m going to end my tour with a show here. At home. In Medellín. I’m -” No, better not to say how many people he’s inviting. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“In the audience, o qué?”

“No -” A term of endearment almost slips out. Old habits die hard, even very old habits. It’s muscle memory, or something. His mouth knows all the lyrics. All _his_ lyrics. “To perform. With me. Just a song or two.”

Feid, surprised, can only respond, “Oh.”

José gives the details of the show on autopilot. He’s made this call eighteen times already, though of course none of the others were exactly _this_ call. He could recite the location, the start time, all the details in his sleep. And he has - last night, he dreamt of this call. The conversation is long gone in the light of day, but the déjà vu remains.

Feid listens, but doesn’t write anything down. He’ll remember, even if he decides he’d rather forget. “I’m not sure,” he says when José is finished.

“Of course, my team would get in touch with your -”

“That’s not what I mean,” Feid interrupts.

“Oh.”

Another pause. Feid tries to gather his thoughts; there are too many of them, too scattered, and the words won’t come. If José had asked him via email, via text, if he’d sent him a damn letter, this would be no problem. But now, not quite face-to-face but not quite apart, Feid says nothing.

“I hear you’ve been doing… well,” José says, and then immediately thinks, _what the fuck?_ He didn’t mean to say it out loud, or at least not like that. He hopes Feid knows what he meant.

Feid knows what he meant. “Yeah, you could say that. It’s been a good year.”

“Congratulations on the nomination,” José says.

“Thank you. Next time you see Benito…” Feid can’t finish the sentence past the sudden lump in his throat. He’d thought it didn’t matter, but maybe-just-maybe it hurts a little or a lot. Not the award - he meant it when he said it was an honor just to be nominated. Actually, he’s not even sure exactly what hurts.

He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall for a conversation between José and Benito. Does José look at Benito the way he looked at Feid? Does Benito feel the same inexplicable ache that Feid did back then, the same inexplicable ache he’s feeling right now?

José hears the end of the sentence, though. “I will. Or - you can talk to him in Medellín.”

“He’ll be there, too?”

“I hope so. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” Feid says with a small laugh. Suddenly, he remembers something, and even though it sounds like José was about to say something else, Feid says, “Speaking of Benito.”

“Hm?”

“Qué Pretendes.”

 _I thought we weren’t making the obvious joke_ , José thinks, but out loud he says, “What about it?”

Feid takes a deep breath. Now or never. “I wasn’t sure at first. But I got - I saw something online. You used my voice.”

“Sky used your voice,” José says immediately.

Feid waves his hand. “You, Sky, Benito, whomever. You didn’t think I might want to know?”

“I thought Sky told you. Aren’t you two -”

“You thought someone else would do it,” Feid says. He has to fight to keep his voice level. Another deep breath, but it doesn’t help. 

José feels like he’s been slapped. “Feid.”

Feid continues as if he doesn’t hear, “I guess I should thank you for calling me to ask about the show. I’m surprised you didn’t leave it to your ‘team.’ Or are they making you call all your special guests?”

“Feid, I - are you still angry?”

“No,” he lies.

“After all this time?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing is,” José says. “If you’re angry, or whatever it is, I’d like you to tell me. For once. Tell me, so I can do something about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I hate this, Feid. I -” José wants to say _I miss you_ , but the syllables stick on his tongue. Not when Feid is still angry. Not when he’s maybe finally about to say _why_ he’s angry, instead of just disappearing again. He knows he shouldn’t push, should just let Feid talk, but the _I miss you_ comes out as, “You quit answering my calls.”

“You quit calling.”

“I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I still don’t.”

“You don’t -” Feid cuts himself off. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth in an almost-sigh, re-centers himself. He rubs his eyes. “Actually, it’s fine. Okay? It’s fine, José. I’ll see you in Medellín.” He stops talking, but he doesn’t hang up.

“Please don’t hang up.”

“Why not,” Feid says. It’s not a question.

“Because I miss you,” José blurts.

They both resist the obvious joke, the too-appropriate song. _Qué raro, que ahora estoy más caro._ Pause, breath, leaving it unsaid. _Hemos cambiado bastante._

“Go on,” Feid says.

“I do. I miss seeing you. I miss our dumb Instagram videos.” Feid softens slightly as José speaks. Even through the phone, José can hear the difference in his breathing, can picture his eyes. “I miss your words.”

“Oh.”

 _Fuck_ , José thinks. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Right.”

José backtracks, but he can’t help but feel like he’s only digging the hole deeper. “No, I mean - how we talked. How you talked to me. No one else talks to me like you do, before or since.”

“And how I listened to you,” Feid finishes for him.

“And how you listened to me.” José confirms.

Silence. Feid bites his lip. He’s listening now, but José isn’t sure what to say. They each wait for the other to speak.

“Will you talk to me now?” José asks.

The words are out of Feid’s mouth before his brain has entirely registered them. “How do I know you won’t use it?”

José furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I still listen to your music, José. I remember things I’ve said to you. I recognize them.”

“I haven’t -”

Feid can only think of one example off the top of his head. “What did I always tell you when the anxiety started winning?”

“You weren’t the only one to tell me that.”

“No, but I was the first.”

José thinks back. He’d forgotten the origin of the phrase. So many people have said variations of it throughout the years, and it’s been so long since he considered the original. But he remembers that night. Almost falling apart. It wasn’t the words that saved him; it was the voice.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“Respira y cuenta hasta tres, José.” Feid’s voice is sing-songy, but he’s not quite singing the song. He remembers that night, too, sitting on the floor, José holding his hand in a vice-grip while they counted out loud together. Feid didn’t know what else to do.

José closes his eyes and breathes. They count together again, this time silently and fourteen-hundred miles apart. Feid can still see José so clearly. But no, his mental image is wrong - he’s older than the picture in Feid’s head, and what color is his hair this week, and does he still have that beard or did he shave it? It’s not 2015 anymore.

 _One, two, three._ José lets out a long, slow breath.

“There you go,” Feid says.

“I’m sorry,” José says.

“I’m sure you are.”

“I am.” José pauses, weighing whether it’s worth it to try to lighten the tone. “And not just because I want to see you in Medallo.”

Feid laughs once, a single short syllable. “Right.”

“I do want to see you, though,” José says.

The silence lasts a beat too long, and José worries that he’s made another wrong step. This isn’t like walking on eggshells - it’s like walking across a rickety wooden rope-bridge, ten thousand feet in the air. The metaphor falls apart when he starts thinking about what might happen if he reaches the other side, but for now, he’s terrified of falling.

“I want to see you, too,” Feid says.

“So you can hit me?”

“Maybe.”

“I’d deserve it.”

Suddenly serious again, Feid says, “Sigo Extrañándote -”

For one brief, disorienting moment, José thinks he’s saying it as a statement of fact. The word _también_ is already on José’s lips, nearly out, when Feid continues the sentence.

“- took a lot out of me.”

“Really?”

Feid nods, then remembers that José can’t see him, even if the voice in his ear sounds so close. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Writing it, and then… giving it up. Even though it was for you in the first place.”

They both hear the double-meaning. Feid considers stepping back or clarifying, but he stays silent. Neither read is technically untrue. He lets it hang there in the air.

“I had no idea.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

And that’s the trigger, somehow. José hadn’t thought he was angry - disappointed maybe, sad definitely, hurting, but not angry - but his words come out harsh. “I shouldn’t have needed to ask, Feid. I thought we were… whatever the hell we were. You didn’t feel like you could tell me?”

Feid’s answer is so low that José almost misses it. “No.”

Caught off-guard, José’s anger deflates. “Oh.”

“It was always about you,” Feid says, still so quiet. “Even when I talked to you, it was about you. Do you ever remember listening to me? Letting me talk about something other than you?”

José thinks back again. He remembers talking, talking and listening, maybe talking more than listening, but the content is a blur. They were drinking a lot, smoking a lot back then. Maybe everything is kind of a blur. But he remembers touching, too, their hands always clasped together, Feid’s mouth and his mouth and -

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Feid says.

“Tell me now, then.” José wants to say more, but he knows he’ll only make it worse. _Shut up José_ , he thinks, and then _uno, dos, tres_. Breathe.

“I thought I loved you. But you never really loved me. You loved the idea of me.”

Feid pauses. José listens.

“You loved what I could do for you. And maybe you still do. I fucking - I would’ve died for you, back then. But then I needed you, and I had to beg. For such a small favor. Filming the video and all that seemed fine, but I knew how hard I had to work to get you to say yes. It changed everything.”

José wants to argue. He really didn’t push back that hard when Feid asked for his help. He would’ve died for Feid back then, too. He loved him, too. Or maybe none of that is true, or maybe it is, he doesn’t even know anymore. He was young and dumb and maybe in love. Arguing would make things so much worse. _Yo soy más malo, yo soy malvado, pa ti malvado._

Feid rubs his eyes again, and his hand comes away wet. He can’t remember the last time he cried. His chest hurts. He has to force each deep breath through his constricted lungs. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He’d rather pour it out into a song, blame José for leaving even though maybe Feid was the one who left. _Dime dónde estabas, por qué te fuiste._

“And now I’m useful to you again, so you’re calling me,” Feid continues. “Thanks for the congratulations, by the way. It’s funny - a friend of mine once said that I can predict the future with songs. I guess I did that again.”

“Que ahora estás más caro,” José half-says, half-sings.

“Yeah.” Feid is suddenly very, very tired. His head dips, and the phone feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. He’d hang up, but the distance to the _end call_ button is longer than the distance between himself and José. “Even though you’re still a thousand times more successful than I could ever dream of being.”

“That’s not true,” José says, even though it is.

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m sorry,” José repeats. He meant it the first time, but he means it more now. Not for being successful - he’ll never apologize for that again - but for everything else.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do, though. I - I was terrible back then. I know I was. I still am, probably.” Feid laughs, and José smiles. “After Qué Raro and Superhéroe -”

“I forgot about Superhéroe,” Feid says, even though he didn’t. He could never forget it, because that one was for José too, just on Nicky’s album. But he’d rather not think of Nicky for the same reason he’d rather not think of Benito. The three of them could start a support group.

“I don’t. That one and Qué Raro, nothing was the same after. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. And then you stopped answering my calls.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say, and he amends, “Not that I blame you for it. I don’t think I would answer my calls, either.”

Feid laughs again but doesn’t reply.

“You know I don’t drink anymore?” José says.

“I think I saw something about that, yeah.”

“We’re not kids anymore.”

“We weren’t kids then, either,” Feid says, but he thinks, _yes, we were._

“Yes, we were. Maybe not ‘officially,’ but we were.”

“Yeah.”

They both think for a moment. Every silence is less tense, more like before, when they could sit in silence together for hours, just content to be together. They’re not quite content now - but maybe they weren’t quite content then, either.

“I wonder if we could -” José starts.

Feid already knows how the sentence is going to end. He doesn’t _feel_ angry anymore, but his tone comes out bitter, his words sharp-edged. “Why? You have Benito now, don’t you?”

José laughs, no humor in it. “Sometimes. When he decides to grace me with his presence.” And then he remembers, “You have your Avengers.”

“Sometimes,” Feid echoes, “when they decide to include me.”

“Oh.”

“No one calls me unless they need something,” Feid says, more to himself than to José.

“Same here.”

_One, two, three._

“I’m sorry for calling you,” José says, then immediately changes his mind. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry I called to ask for something. I’m not sorry I called.”

“I’m not, either.” Feid sighs. “We should’ve had this conversation a long time ago.”

“Yeah.”

José doesn’t say _you stopped answering my calls_ , and Feid doesn’t say _you stopped calling._

“I think about you a lot,” José admits.

“How so?”

“Just, you know. Wondering how you’re doing.” _Wondering if you think of me_ , José thinks but doesn’t say.

“Oh.”

Feid doesn’t say, _I think about you all the time, too._ He doesn’t say, _I think about all the things I should’ve said and didn’t say._ He doesn’t say, _I said so much, gave you so many words, and none of them were what I really wanted to say._

The words burn in his chest, but he doesn’t say, _god damn I loved you so much and maybe still love you a little bit but I never once said_ “I love you.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Did you just say you loved me?”

“Did I?” _I did_ , Feid thinks, _god damn it._

“Maybe I misheard.” _Or maybe I heard what I wanted to hear_ , José thinks.

There’s a pause long enough that Feid wonders whether the call dropped and José wonders whether he’ll fall through the slats of the rope bridge now that it’s swinging so violently. They both hold their breath.

“I didn’t say I loved you,” Feid says at last.

“Oh.”

“I said I love you. Present tense.”

José swallows hard. “Oh.”

“I gave you everything. And you still have it.” 

José says nothing.

Feid’s voice is hoarse. “I thought I was over it. I try not to think about you. But it’s hard when you’re one of the most famous people in the world. It never went away.” Though he could say a thousand more words, Feid stops. He scratches his cheek, then switches the phone from one hand to the other.

When he’s sure that Feid is finished, José says, “I knew back then that you loved me. I never imagined you still did.”

“Yeah, well.”

“I loved you, too.” José shakes his head, corrects himself. “Love. Present tense.”

“You never said it,” Feid says.

“I didn’t know how. Back then.”

Feid hums. “I guess I didn’t, either. I tried to - I hoped you would know. From…” He trails off. Does he want to admit how many of the songs were for him? He’s not sure he even knows the answer. All of them?

“Tú sabes que no quiero perderte,” José sings. _But if you didn’t want to lose me, why did you pull away?_

“Sabes que este amor fue tan fuerte,” Feid sings back. He gets it intentionally wrong, intentionally past-tense. _Was it really that strong?_

Instead of singing the next line, José says, “We would’ve been a really fucked-up couple.”

“We were a really fucked-up couple.”

“I guess we were,” José laughs.

“José, when I come to Medallo -”

“So you are coming?”

“Yes. If I can make it work, yes. But when - _if_ I come, I want to see you. Not just perform at your show. I want to -” He stops. He thinks, _I want to look into your eyes, touch you, kiss you, f-_ but no, he can’t say any of that. José isn’t quite entirely forgiven yet. “- talk to you.”

“I’d like that.” _And I’ll listen_ , he doesn’t say. _We can talk about you, you can say whatever you want, and I’ll listen, I’m better at that now, now that I’m not always drunk or high or thinking about getting drunk or high, now that I’m an adult who’s been in therapy and everything._ And he doesn’t say _respira, uno, dos, tres_ , but he thinks that, too.

“I’m not writing any more songs for you,” Feid says, only half-joking.

“I know,” José says back, only half-joking. “I’m -” he starts, but second-guesses it. Is it weird to say? Yes, probably, but fuck it, it needs to be said. “I’m really proud of you.”

Feid, surprised, is suddenly unable to speak past the lump that has formed again in his throat. He didn’t know he was waiting for that, but maybe he was. Maybe he needed to hear it. His chest still hurts, but it’s lighter now. Still, he can’t even say thank you; the tears have finally stopped, and he doesn’t dare risk starting them again.

José gives him the moment. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t made a wrong step on the bridge. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s just inches from solid ground.

When Feid is able to speak, he says the first thing that occurs to him. “I’m proud of you, too.”

“Thank you,” José says, but his voice is thick, too.

“José, I - I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll see you in Medellín.”

José smiles. “Yeah. See you in Medellín.”

“And maybe,” Feid says, “maybe if you call again, I’ll answer.”

“Just maybe?” José teases.

“Not maybe,” Feid responds, serious. “I’ll answer, José, if I can. I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad I called, too.”

Silence. If they were together for real, they might hug, or at least do that complicated handshake that they both still mostly remember. But over the phone, nothing feels quite right.

“Go,” José says at last. “I’ll call again.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Feid says.

There’s still so much left to say. The call ends with a _click_.

**Author's Note:**

> one million thank-yous to [maria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehwellwhatever) & [obbel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel) for beta-reading and editing.
> 
> yes, there's [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1262877293/playlist/7fAEHXRtTI2kPxNWl335NH?si=J5FAFqT1TRylV6KAiVn0OQ).
> 
> and the [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/-yvnMDrL3L/?hl=en) [videos](https://www.instagram.com/p/-w2TBKLLxE/).


End file.
